


What Are You Going To Do About It?

by brbsoulnomming



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-29
Updated: 2012-02-29
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:45:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brbsoulnomming/pseuds/brbsoulnomming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt at <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5013.html?thread=16222613#t16222613">sherlockbbc_fic</a>:</p><p>  <i>So, for whatever reason Sherlock steals John's clothes.</i></p><p>  <i>John, BAMF that he is, decides he's not going to take this lying down and wanders around the flat completely naked because he doesn't want to play Sherlock's game.</i></p><p>  <i>I want John making tea, cooking, reading a book (legs uncrossed, of course), watching telly, randomly bending over to pick things up, etcetera. JUST GOING ABOUT HIS DAY, BUT IN THE NUDE.</i></p><p>  <i>Sherlock now has a major problem: John's nudity is DISTRACTING.</i></p><p>  <i>He expected John would be all modest, or at least wear a towel or something, but things aren't going as planned.</i></p><p>  <i>Bonus points if there's a drug bust.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	What Are You Going To Do About It?

When John gets out of the shower, the clothes that John had brought with him to change into aren’t there. For a moment, John considers the possibility that he’d forgotten to bring clean clothes with him, as it’s happened before. Though usually that happens only when he’s showering after having gotten no sleep and forgets them in his exhaustion. But the pyjamas that John had stripped out of before getting into the shower are gone as well, which means outside influence. 

Which means Sherlock.

John sighs, because he hadn’t even heard Sherlock come in. And all right, maybe he’d been singing a little bit louder than usual, and a little bit more than usual, but he’d been in a good mood. It’s Sunday, and John’s got the day off, and he’s got tomorrow off as well, and he was planning on spending the day doing absently nothing. Nothing but curling up on the couch and not moving except for tea, food, and later in the evening, beer. He was even hoping to convince Sherlock to watch another couple of Bond movies, considering Sherlock’d just wrapped up their latest case. 

But instead, apparently, he will be putting up with whatever’s gotten into Sherlock that means he feels the need to sneak in and steal John’s clothing while he’s in the shower. 

Whatever. Those hadn’t been his most comfortable clothes, anyway. He’d avoided his comfiest jumper, because it’s knitted from an alarming number of different colours that all clash horribly, and Sherlock always makes some remark about it distracting him with its hideousness. John’s officially wearing it now, all day, and maybe even all tomorrow.

Except apparently he isn’t, because after he wraps his towel around his waist and heads to his room, he opens his wardrobe to discover that his comfiest jumper isn’t there. Nothing is there, actually, not even the lonely socks that have long since lost their pairs, but John can’t bring himself to throw them out because he’s sure he’ll find them one day, and even if he doesn’t, they’re still perfectly good socks. 

John spends a moment staring at his empty wardrobe. Then he strides over to his door, opens it, sticks his head out, and yells down the stairs, “Sherlock! Where are my clothes?” 

“Needed them,” Sherlock replies. 

“For _what_?” John demands. 

“Experiment. You’ll get them back, don’t worry. Even the ones that clearly should have been disposed of long, long ago.” There’s a hint of scorn in Sherlock’s voice at that last bit, enough that John knows that Sherlock is wrinkling his nose in distaste without even having to see him. 

“I’ll ge-” John starts, but stops, because he knows there’s no point. 

Sherlock’s in one of his moods, and that means if John wants his clothes, he’s going to have to find them himself. 

“This is so childish, Sherlock!” He can’t resist yelling before he closes his bedroom door again, but he isn’t surprised when he doesn’t get a response. 

He spends the next few minutes searching his room in the vain hope that maybe Sherlock left him _something_ , even just a pair of pants, but it doesn’t take him long to discover that there’s absolutely nothing. John looks absently at the wardrobe again as he debates his options, then finally nods and lets the towel drop. 

He is absolutely not interested in playing whatever game Sherlock is involved in right now, and he’s not going to let this change his plans in the slightest. 

\-----

Sherlock hadn’t lied. The missing clothes are indeed for an experiment. Of course, it’s for an experiment involving the best ways to ensure that John doesn’t leave the flat, should Sherlock desire his presence during the contemplation stage of a case, places to hide things from John so that he won’t find them, and, all right, Sherlock’s curiosity as to John’s reaction. They haven’t a case – or rather, they’ve one he’s already solved but is waiting for Lestrade to figure it out his own damn self, because this “case,” if it can so be called, turned out to be so far below anything of interest that Sherlock can’t even bring himself to waste time on a text, even when he’s got nothing but time. 

Absolutely nothing but time, and he’s _bored_. John’s reaction is likely to be at least somewhat amusing. Most likely John will hunt around the flat for his clothes – and the places he looks will tell Sherlock things about him, of course – give up, lounge around in his towel or under blankets for a bit, and then finally provoke an argument, which Sherlock will allow to last for as long as it amuses him. Which may be quite some time, John is always entertaining when they’re arguing about something trivial – not when they’re arguing about something real, something that _means_ something to both of them, but Sherlock dislikes those arguments because he always feels as though he’s losing something in them, even if he technically wins, so he doesn’t allow himself to think about them. 

In any case, Sherlock will eventually tell John where his clothes are, John will pretend to be angry but will really be only slightly irritated, and by dinner, especially if John has a beer or two with his take-out, John will be entirely amused at the situation, and will make comments that end up with both of them giggling. 

Predictable, yes, and yes, Sherlock has the entire situation already mapped out in his head, which should mean it will prove to be incredibly boring, but Sherlock finds that he’s looking forward to it. Especially dinner. 

He quite likes it when John giggles because of something Sherlock’s done. 

Sherlock can hear John in his room upstairs, rummaging around, and he smiles. It won’t take him long to finish searching his room, Sherlock knows, mostly because John’s room is practically spartan, and any misplaced clothing item in there would be quickly located. 

Sure enough, there’s a few minutes of silence, and then the sound of John’s door opening and footsteps coming down the stairs. Sherlock wills the smile off his face and goes back to skimming the article that’s open on his laptop – it’s on a new assessment technique used in forensic psychiatric evaluations, and he is somewhat interested, so it’s easier to look completely engrossed. 

He doesn’t look up as John enters the living room and crosses into the kitchen, but he’s mildly curious that _that’s_ where John chose to search next for his clothes. As if there’d be room for them, when John knows perfectly well that the fridge is completely full – and some of what’s in it is actually edible – and the cupboards, aside from the three dedicated solely to dishes and cookware, are places that John does not venture into. 

There’s the distinct sound of the kettle being put on, and yes, that makes more sense. John does prefer to have his tea in the morning before doing anything else. Apparently this includes searching for his clothes. 

Sherlock returns to his article, devoting most of his attention to it now, and only absently listening out for John so he’ll be able to tell when John is done with his tea and Sherlock should start paying attention to where he’s looking again. 

“I suppose I don’t really want to know what kind of experiment requires _all_ of my clothes?” John asks, in the tone that Sherlock knows means he isn’t expecting an answer. Curiously, it’s also got a trace of exasperated smugness, the way John sounds when he suspects he knows _something_ of what Sherlock is up to, though he doesn’t have the whole picture yet. 

“Not if you don’t already know what it is,” Sherlock replies absently, making a few notes on something he reads that doesn’t match up with other research he’s done on the topic. 

“Thought as much,” John says, and walks back into the living room.

The footsteps stop in front of the sofa, but even if Sherlock hadn’t been listening for them, he’d know John was standing in front of him. John has a – presence, some sort of strange ability to make Sherlock aware of him even when he’s not looking. 

“Made extra,” John tells him. “Would you like some?”

“No thanks,” Sherlock says, gesturing vaguely towards where the tea he’d made himself some time ago is. “Already have some.” 

“Uh-huh,” John says, and Sherlock knows he’s smiling. “When you drink it next and realize it’s stone cold, there’s more in the kitchen.”

Sherlock looks up, mostly to catch a brief glimpse of John’s smile before returning to his work, but also finally giving into the curiosity to see what John’s using to cover himself while clothes-hunting. And then he’s quite glad his mug of tea is sitting discarded on the coffee table, because if he’d been holding it, there’s a small chance he might have dropped it. 

John isn’t using anything to cover himself. 

Well. He’s always known that John’s quite capable of surprising him - he does it quite often, in fact – and so Sherlock shouldn’t be surprised that John has managed to surprise him.

Hmm. That’s two levels of surprise there. He’s not sure even John’s managed that before. Interesting. Perhaps he – 

John leans forward to take Sherlock’s abandoned mug, and Sherlock’s thought slips away as his attention is drawn to the pull of skin over muscle in John’s left forearm, bicep, as he grips the mug. He pulls it back to him, glances inside it, then starts towards the kitchen. 

“I’ll fill it up anyway,” John says. “You managed half of this before you forgot about it, maybe this time you’ll have another half and then you’ll have drunk a whole cup.” 

“Fine,” Sherlock replies, because he knows John’s wanting a response, and he lets irritation show in his voice. He is irritated by John insisting on interrupting his reading with his tea. Yes. He is _not_ intrigued by John’s response to his no clothes dilemma. 

He doesn’t look up when John returns and sets a mug of fresh tea next to him, though he does reach for it when John’s moved on, taking a sip as John settles in his chair to drink his own tea. More confident now that things are back to going the way he expected, Sherlock takes another drink of his tea and sets down the mug. He leans back against the sofa, pulling his laptop into his lap and returning his focus to it. 

While he waits for John to finish his tea, he pulls up a new spreadsheet and titles it ‘places John looks for hidden objects.’ He creates columns for locations, time John starts looking, time he stops, total of time spent there, the comments John makes while looking there, and leaves room for himself to make more as he thinks of them. It’s not necessary, of course, but he likes spreadsheets. And if he’s focusing a little more on the factual aspect of this “experiment” than he had intended, well, that’s only because it’s important to be thorough. After that’s done, he goes back to his reading, resisting looking over at John impatiently.

Finally, _finally_ , there comes the creaking of John’s chair as he stands, likely to return his empty mug to the kitchen. Footsteps, yes, towards the kitchen, but then they stop. Sherlock flicks his eyes briefly over, just a glance and then –

John is stretching. Sherlock’s seen it before; John does it often in the morning, but never before without his clothes. He’s up on his toes, calves and thighs straining, buttocks firm, slightly thick waist, muscled back, broad shoulders, arms stretched upwards. Then he’s back down, feet flat on the floor, muscles relaxed, and he turns his attention to his shoulder. The left one, the injured one, and he rolls it lightly before stretching out his arm, sideways and slightly back, twisting it just a little so that his elbow and the palm of his left hand face upwards. Scarred skin shifts over the back of his shoulder. John smoothes his right hand over it, fingertips rubbing gently, and Sherlock wants – he wants – 

Sherlock’s hands twitch. The scar is curious, of course, Sherlock hasn’t seen it before, not for this long. It’s worse on John’s back than it is on his chest, a bigger mass of scar tissue, signs of infection. If Sherlock could get a closer look, he could – 

“Sherlock?” John asks, turning around.

Sherlock looks up, meeting his eyes, and wonders if he’s caught. He starts to think of an explanation, then realizes there’s no need; there’s nothing wrong with being curious about John’s scar, although saying that will bring up the “naked” topic that, for some reason, both of them haven’t been mentioning. 

But John just asks, “D’you want some breakfast? I’m going to make eggs and toast.”

Sherlock stares at him, and concludes that John is not going to look for his clothes. Instead, he’s going to stand in the kitchen and cook breakfast, naked. And then he’s going to sit in the living room and eat breakfast, also naked. And then he’ll read the paper, watch the telly, poke at his blog, go about his day, all naked. Sherlock is beginning to suspect that John won’t be searching for his clothes at all today. 

Sherlock glares at his screen. This is completely unacceptable. How is Sherlock supposed to gather data about John based on his selections or learn where to hide things from him if he refuses to look at all? Sherlock ignores that he was originally looking for John’s reaction, because he’s realized that the other bits were actually the most important part.

‘Did you, then?’ the voice in his head that sounds like John asks, but he ignores it because yes, obviously, he did, and he doesn’t like what the scepticism in the voice is implying. 

He does, however, if he’s being honest with himself, like that John has managed to surprise him so thoroughly. Sherlock allows himself a small, slightly proud smile as he settles back again. It’s still an experiment, he’ll just have to adjust the parameters. See how long it takes John to give up and start searching. Until then, he can still get his reading done.

“Sherlock?” John prompts.

“Not hungry,” Sherlock replies absently. 

“Well, I’m at least making you some toast,” John says.

Sherlock frowns and looks up to ask him why he’d bothered to check in the first place, then, but the question dies on his lips when he sees that John has the cupboard open and is reaching to grab a pan. Sherlock sees John stretching from the side this time, smooth right shoulder a sharp contrast to his left, right palm against the kitchen counter, though he isn’t reaching up enough to have to put any weight on it, hips –

Sherlock forces his attention back to his laptop, frustrated. John isn’t doing anything different than what he normally does, and Sherlock has already adjusted his experiment to account for the nudity. Why should he be so much more distracting? Although, upon further observation, John _is_ being rather louder than usual, clanging plates and pans around, opening and closing drawers. Every loud sound disturbs Sherlock’s concentration, and he glances instinctively over to the kitchen, where he winds up spending several seconds, far too long, looking at an endless amount of lightly tanned skin. 

By the time John sets a plate of toast on the coffee table in front of him, Sherlock’s mood has gone completely sour. He glares at the toast as if it’s its fault, and resolutely refuses to acknowledge it. Or to look at John as he sits back in his chair, crunching toast loudly and switching the telly on.

It’s like that for _hours_. John is completely at ease, doing everything like it’s just a typical day off, absolutely oblivious to how much more irritatingly distracting he’s being than usual. Making comments at the telly, shifting positions and causing the chair to creak, getting up and going to the kitchen and back, even sometimes _humming_. It’s all of these ridiculous things that catch Sherlock’s attention, of course, and the fact that what keeps it is the dusting of dark blond hair over calves and forearms, muscled thighs, biceps, means – it only means – 

Sherlock doesn’t _know_ , because John chooses that moment to stand and saunter into the kitchen, and Sherlock’s thought leaves his brain and follows John’s backside. 

“Heating up some of that chicken masala, you want some?” John asks. “Actually, let me change that to, ‘you’re having some,’ since you didn’t eat that toast.”

Sherlock scowls. “I didn’t eat it because _you_ did, before I was able to.” 

John rolls his eyes. “I ate it after two hours, Sherlock, and that was only so it didn’t go to waste. We haven’t a case, so you’ve no excuse. You’re eating.” 

Sherlock gives in, because though he won’t admit it, he is a bit hungry. John heats up some naan bread as well, and this time instead of setting the plate of food on the coffee table, he holds it out until Sherlock huffs in annoyance and accepts it. 

They’re almost finished when someone knocks on the door downstairs. Sherlock perks up, suddenly interested. There’s someone at the door, not only a welcome distraction from the distraction that is John – he needs distractions from distractions, what is his life coming to – but there’s a possibility that it’s for _them_ , and how will John react? 

Sherlock glances over at John, to see if he’s heard the door, but just as he does, John drops a clump of rice and sauce onto his upper thigh. Sherlock’s eyes follow it as it lands, _right next_ to what he’s managed not to really look at all day, but _now_ , oh, now he’s looking. John’s legs are parted slightly, spread just enough to give Sherlock a perfect view of his cock, thick and just a bit full, even without – no, not without, there’s definitely a slight hint of arousal there. 

A piece of naan comes into view, sweeping the rice away, but there’s a smudge of sauce left. Sherlock leans forward, unconsciously, as John’s thumb sweeps up the sauce. There’s a spark in Sherlock’s groin, a pool of heat curling low in his stomach. He knows what it is, of course, has been feeling a mild form all day, but he’s ignored it, like he always does. Yes, he is attracted to John, just as he’s been attracted to others, but he has no problem dismissing attraction, so why –

The person downstairs knocks again, but Sherlock no longer cares. Mrs. Hudson will deal with them, or they will go away on their own, Sherlock is on to something much more intriguing.

John shifts, very slightly, not even really moving, but his cock twitches and thickens, becoming slightly more aroused. Sherlock’s breath hitches, just a tiny bit. He wonders what it would feel like, if it would be velvety beneath his fingertips, what John’s reaction would be to lips over it, if it tastes – 

John shifts again, this time crossing and uncrossing his legs, and Sherlock forces his gaze away, though he can’t stop it travelling up John’s stomach, chest, and finally to his face. John raises an eyebrow at him, then brings his thumb – covered in the smudge of sauce, Sherlock notes – to his mouth. His lips part and his thumb slips in, tongue swirling around the pad to lick the sauce off. 

There’s a small, soft whimper, barely audible, and it takes Sherlock a second to realize that he was the one who made it. Sherlock stops staring at John’s lips and checks to see if John’s heard that. John’s looking at him, almost expectantly, and Sherlock pairs that look with John’s earlier raised eyebrow and thinks – thinks – 

There’s pounding at the door again, but louder, not downstairs, at their door. 

“ _What_?” Sherlock yells, not moving his eyes from John’s face. 

“Open the door, Sherlock!” Lestrade yells back. “Or I’ll do it myself!” 

Sherlock turns to the door, curious. Lestrade shouldn’t be here, it’s far too soon after their last case. Suddenly, Sherlock grins and bounds for the door. This must be _good_ , if Lestrade’s bringing him something new so soon, they must have gotten desperate very quickly. 

“What’s happened?” Sherlock asks as he opens the door. He pauses with it halfway open as he sees not only Lestrade, but Donovan, Anderson, and several others that he recognizes but hasn’t bothered to remember names for. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you think, Sherlock?” Lestrade asks.

Sherlock sneers. “Another ‘drugs bust’?”

“I’ve told you,” Lestrade says. “You withhold evidence from us and-”

“I haven’t withheld anything!” Sherlock snaps. “Collect him yourself, John and I can’t do everything.”

He attempts to shut the door, but Lestrade shoves through, and Sherlock just ends up closing it after him. Sherlock scowls and crosses his arms, feeling cheated. The prospect of a good case had been exciting, something worth disrupting his chain of thought, but a drugs bust for no reason is just insulting. 

“Are we needed?” John asks.

“No, John,” Sherlock says. “We’re not going to do their job more than we do already, not for that _case_ , if it can be called that.”

Lestrade sighs. “Just because something stops holding your interest doesn’t mean you can keep things from us. If you-” He cuts off, for obvious reasons, as John has just come to stand next to them.

Lestrade blinks, then raises an eyebrow. “Do I want to know?”

“Probably not,” John says. “You aren’t interrupting anything, if that’s what you were wondering.”

Lestrade considers that, then says, “You know, anyone else, and that would’ve been my first thought, but not here. It was a close second, though.”

John grins, and Sherlock’s scowl deepens. 

“Get out,” he says. 

The door opens slightly, then, and Donovan slips in. “Lestrade, are we – oh.” Donovan stops, both speaking and moving forward.

“Hullo, Sergeant Donovan,” John greets pleasantly. 

“Doctor Watson,” Donovan returns. “You’re looking – fit.”

John’s smile changes, subtly, perhaps unconsciously, but Sherlock notices it because he’s got more occasion to notice John than anyone, and he’s picked up some of John’s behaviour patterns. This is the smile John has when someone has noticed him, and the appreciation is mutual. Though, Sherlock is absurdly pleased to note, it is _not_ the smile that says he’s actually interested. 

Donovan’s looking at John like she’s thinking ‘if _that’s_ what’s under those jumpers, we should do the world a favour and burn them all.’ 

Except Sherlock’s fond of those jumpers. Even the extremely hideous one – which, actually, isn’t so much hideous as it is almost worn threadbare, and shrunk a bit from being was so many times. It stretches across John’s chest in an appealing way, looks so soft that it’s almost begging Sherlock to touch it, and the colours don’t so much clash as manage to make John look very fetching. If Sherlock’s told John otherwise, well, he had to say something when John caught him looking one too many times. 

So he’d be quite cross if John’s jumpers were to be burned, and he finds himself irritated at Donovan for even thinking it. 

“Don’t you have better things to do than imposing yourselves on other people?” Sherlock snaps. “Like arresting the arsonist I practically _handed_ to you?”

“ _Hande_ \- Sherlock, you’ve given us nothing,” Lestrade says. 

John frowns. “I thought we finished that case. Wasn’t it the-”

“We did.” Sherlock cuts him off. “It was.” He turns to Lestrade. “All the clues are there, you have everything you need to point you in the right direction. I haven’t _withheld_ anything from you, just because you have brains that move slower than a dead squirrel doesn’t give you an excuse to-”

John clears his throat and shifts his weight, and Sherlock can’t help but glance over at him. He corrects this quickly, looking back over to Lestrade after no more than a second. 

Lestrade had been rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, but he stops at Sherlock’s brief pause and says, “If you know who it is, Sherlock, just _tell_ us.”

Sherlock pouts. The case had been _boring_ , and now it insists on tormenting him more. It wasn’t even proving to be a good distraction from John, because he’s _still_ being a little distracting, he’s just also now being distracting for more people than Sherlock.

That bugs him, though he doesn’t know why. He finds he would prefer John being infuriatingly distracting when only Sherlock’s there rather than just a minor distraction while he’s also distracting other people. No, that’s wrong. Not quite it. It’s not the distraction in general, it’s the _type_ of distraction – 

“Sherlock?” John prompts gently. 

“Yes, fine,” Sherlock snaps, irritated at having his thought interrupted. That was the least pleasing distraction that John has done all – oh. Hmm. 

“What is it?” John asks. “You’ve got your deduction face on.”

“Nothing, it’s-” Sherlock pauses, frowning at John. “My what?”

“It’s – you get this look on your face when you’ve made some kind of progress on something you’ve been thinking over. It wasn’t your epiphany face, so you haven’t got it completely sorted-” He cuts off, glancing away briefly, then clears his throat again. “What’d you figure out?”

Sherlock files away the fact that John categorizes the expressions he makes during his thinking process, somewhere in a folder next to the one that contains Sherlock’s categories of John’s smiles, and tags it for further examination. “Nothing. It’s not related to the case, anyway, something far more interesting. It was the neighbour. Check his garage, he’s got a hidden room in there, he told Anderson that himself. Guess what’s in it?” It almost pains him, having to lay that out for them, but it’s the best way to get them to leave quickly. 

“Anderson thought he was joking,” Donovan says quietly to Lestrade.

Sherlock stares at her. “Of course he did. Of course it’s because Anderson’s a bloody idiot that you lot are in here invading our private time.”

“ _Private time_?” Donovan repeats, just as Anderson calls, “I can _hear_ you.” 

“You, and him, were having ‘private time’?” Donovan asks John.

“Probably not the way you’re thinking,” John replies. 

“And what could she be thinking? Not a lot left to imagination, is there?” Lestrade asks.

He sounds teasing, but Sherlock isn’t paying attention to them. He’s listening to the footsteps moving closer to the door, growing more horrified by the idea of Anderson coming in and seeing –

“Anderson!” Sherlock yells. “Don’t you dare step one foot in this flat! I don’t want you contaminating it with that extra bout of stupidity you picked up from somewhere.”

The footsteps stop. “As if anything could contaminate that flat of yours with what you’ve got in there.”

“You don’t want to come in here, anyway, Anderson,” Lestrade tells him.

“Oh, I don’t know, I quite enjoyed it,” Donovan says. 

John gives her an exaggerated wink.

Sherlock glares. “All right, I’ve given you what you want. Now get out of our home.”

“All right, let’s move out,” Lestrade says, turning towards the door, then adds, “Enjoy your private time.”

“I’ll never live this down, will I?” John asks. 

“Live it down? You’re lucky I didn’t take pictures,” Donovan teases as she and Lestrade leave the flat.

John flushes a bit, the first sign he’s shown that he might not be as perfectly comfortable as he seemed, and Sherlock’s absurdly glad that neither Donovan nor Lestrade were there to see it.

“Well, let’s never do that again,” John mutters, then frowns at him. “Did you know they were coming over?”

“No,” Sherlock replies indignantly. “I had hoped they weren’t completely incompetent, but Anderson always underwhelms even my low expectations of him.”

“All right, then,” John says, then looks at him expectantly.

Sherlock supposes that this is the time that he should tell John where his clothes are. This particular experiment has long since gone off track, and there’s no point in continuing it. But Sherlock’s strangely reluctant to tell him. 

“Well?” John asks. “Are you going to tell me what you figured out?”

Sherlock blinks, mildly surprised. Then says, “No. Not yet. Maybe when I’ve sorted it completely.”

John nods, then turns and heads into the kitchen. “Putting more tea on,” he calls over his shoulder. “Want some?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer right away, because his eyes are on the way the muscles in John’s back and neck flex when he turns his head like that. “What? Oh. Yes. Fine.”

He moves back over to the sofa, flipping open the lid of his laptop, and forces himself to pay attention to the screen. He’s looking at diagrams of a new type of acid now, learning all the components. He likes diagrams. 

“What was it about, then, if not the case?” John asks conversationally from the kitchen. “Do we have another?”

“No,” Sherlock replies, frowning at the screen. “It’s not about a case.” 

“I suppose I don’t really want to know what kind of a deduction isn’t about a case?” John asks.

It’s an almost perfect echo of his question and tone from that morning and Sherlock looks up, searching his expression. It’s curious, a little hopeful, and a tiny bit – nervous? Their eyes meet, and Sherlock’s narrow, as if he can figure out what John’s thinking if he only looks deep enough. 

“It’s something to do with me,” Sherlock says finally, absently, without really meaning to.

John frowns. “You’re deducing yourself?”

Sherlock scowls. “I’m assessing new data about myself,” he replies, irritated that he’d said as much.

“It’s all right,” John tells him. “Deductions about you are my favourite. I usually like them when I make them, but they’re good when you tell me them, too.” 

Sherlock stares at him, because he has absolutely no idea what that means. “Shut up, John. I’m thinking.” 

\-----

John thinks this might be the first time he’s discovered something before Sherlock. All right, well, he’s usually the first to notice things like they’ve run out of anything edible or haven’t cleaned in a month, but those are little things and don’t count. This, though, is potentially a really big thing. 

At least, he hopes it is. God, he hopes he isn’t reading things wrong. 

He hadn’t really known what he’d expected Sherlock’s reaction to him walking around naked to be. Being weirded out and bringing him his clothes, maybe. Or, more likely, ignoring it completely and going about the day as normal. And, considering playing rugby, going through med-school, and being in the military had left John with very little modesty, he would’ve been fine with that. The first little bit had been a touch weird, yes, but he’d adjusted quickly and had soon almost forgotten. 

And likely would’ve completely forgotten, if he hadn’t noticed that Sherlock was far more distracted than usual. And then realized that that was because Sherlock was _noticing_ him. John’d forced himself not to jump to conclusions until he did a few tests (‘never theorize before you have data or you’ll begin to twist facts to suit theories instead of theories to suit facts,’ said the little voice in his head that sounded like Sherlock, and wouldn’t Sherlock be thrilled to find his lessons being used on him?). But yes, he’d caught Sherlock not just looking, but _looking_ , too many times for it to be anything else. 

Except, sitting here and just _waiting_ is making him have second thoughts. What if he’s wrong? What if the signs of attraction are different in Sherlock? What if –

“John,” Sherlock says suddenly. 

John blinks, startled. “What?” 

“You haven’t asked for your clothes back,” he says.

This seems like some sort of trick. “No, I haven’t,” he says carefully. 

“Would you like to be wearing clothes right now?” There’s no hint of sarcasm there. He sounds genuinely curious, a little unsure, like he’s just figuring something out. 

John considers his options for a moment. He doesn’t, though he’d rather Sherlock be wearing no clothes as well, but he can’t just tell Sherlock that. Sherlock’s looking at him, like he’s trying to pretend he doesn’t care about the answer, but really does and doesn’t understand why. 

John shifts, leaning back against the wall, and meets Sherlock’s eyes. “Do _you_ want me to be wearing clothes right now?” 

The question obviously surprises Sherlock, but he doesn’t look away. He doesn’t answer, either, and now the two of them are stuck there, neither wanting to be the first to answer a question that John knows very well is about much more than clothes. Except it occurs to him that he’s not sure if Sherlock knows, and if anyone’s going to give in, going to break this, it’s going to have to be him. 

So even though it makes his chest tighten, he says quietly, “No. I don’t.”

Sherlock’s off the sofa and in front of him before John can process that he’s moved, and from the flicker of surprise in Sherlock’s eyes, maybe even before he processes it. Sherlock’s leaning in his space, right forearm braced against the wall right by his head, and left hand around his wrist, holding it loosely against the wall. 

“You’ve been a distraction all day,” Sherlock murmurs, eyes bright.

“I noticed,” John says. 

“You were doing it on purpose,” Sherlock says. 

“Yes,” John agrees. 

Sherlock’s eyes darken, gaze intense. “Why?”

“Gathering data,” John tells him. 

Sherlock’s _looking_ at him again now, and this close up, John can see desire there. “On me?”

“I told you,” John says. “My favourite deductions are about you.” 

Sherlock’s response is to kiss him, fierce and hungry, and John reaches up with his free hand to thread his fingers through the hair at the back of Sherlock’s head. 

“It is incredibly irritating how long it took me to realize I wanted to do that,” Sherlock says when they finally break about.

“So let’s do it again,” John says. “Only someplace more comfortable, and preferably horizontal.” 

“No,” Sherlock replies, mouthing along John’s jaw and down his neck. “I’ve been watching you all day, not being able to touch, not knowing how much I wanted to touch. You are not going anywhere until I explore every. Inch. Of you.” He punctuates each of those with a kiss, to John’s pulse point, to the hollow of his throat, to the scar tissue on John’s left shoulder. 

The low, possessive tone of Sherlock’s voice sends a jolt straight to his groin, and he feels himself growing harder. 

“Sherlock,” John starts, but has to stop, because Sherlock is sucking a line down the center of his chest and to his navel, dipping his tongue delicately in. John gasps, swallows thickly, and starts again, “You’ve been _watching_ , it’s only fair that I at least get to see you.” 

Sherlock’s tongue probes deeper in response, and John’s breath hitches. He pulls his wrist free and grabs the collar of Sherlock’s shirt in both hands, yanking him back up to kiss him again. 

“Bedroom. Now,” John murmurs against Sherlock’s lips.

By unspoken agreement, they head up to John’s room, scrambling up the stairs, still kissing, while John fumbles desperately with the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt. He pops a few off, and mumbles something about fixing that later, but he has it open by the time they reach John’s bedroom. Sherlock pauses long enough to let John strip the shirt off him, then he pushes John onto the bed and follows, straddling him.

“We’re horizontal,” Sherlock says. “Satisfied?”

“Not nearly,” John replies. 

“Then may I continue?” Sherlock asks.

John groans, bucking his hips once against Sherlock’s trouser-clad groin. “Oh, God, yes.” 

Sherlock puts his palms on John’s shoulders, bracing himself as his tongue returns to John’s navel. He licks and sucks while his hands ghost down over John’s chest, thumbing his nipples, skimming ribs and rubbing circles into his hips. Sherlock’s mouth moves lower, slowly, teasingly, until he places the softest of kisses against the shaft of John’s cock. 

“Sherlock,” John gasps, hips bucking again, and Sherlock takes this as a cue to wrap his fingers around John’s cock and stroke.

The touch is maddeningly light, _sogoodbutnotenough_ , but Sherlock is obviously taking his time, stroking slowly, free hand roaming over John’s body, fingertips tracing over any part he can reach. And then John feels Sherlock’s lips on the head of his cock, tongue lapping at the precum. John’s hands reach down to grab at Sherlock’s thighs, but his hands meet fabric instead of the skin he wants. 

“Sherlock,” John says, voice ragged. “Sherlock, stop.”

Sherlock stops immediately, looking up at him, though his keeps his hand on John’s cock. “Is something wrong?”

He sounds – almost vulnerable, and John shakes his head quickly. “No, something’s really right, and if you don’t stop now, I’m not going to last. And I’d really like to fuck you.”

Sherlock stills over him, eyes intense.

“Or you can fuck me, if you want,” John says. “I don’t care, I just want _more_.”

“Wanting more is the first sign of an addictive personality,” Sherlock murmurs. 

“All right, so I’m addicted to you.” John moves his hand up to rest on the small of Sherlock’s back, thumb stroking lightly. “We kind of knew that anyway, didn’t we?”

Sherlock stares at him. “I’m not a good addiction to have.”

John stares back. “Too bad. Too late. Don’t care.”

Sherlock kisses him, then lets go of John’s cock to unzip his trousers. John reaches over to his bedside table to grab a condom and lube while Sherlock removes the rest of his clothes. Sherlock takes the condom when he’s done, and John’s so busy looking at Sherlock that he doesn’t notice Sherlock’s opened it until he’s rolling it over John’s cock. 

“Guess we’re going with option one, then,” John says, the idea making him even harder, which he would’ve thought impossible. 

“Obviously,” Sherlock returns. 

John’s reply is to flip them over, kneeling over Sherlock so he can look at him. Black hair against the cream of John’s pillow, eyes intense with lust, faint scars lining pale skin, cock jutting out, leaking over abdominal muscles, long legs parted to make room for John between them. 

“So beautiful, Sherlock,” John murmurs. “So bloody gorgeous.” 

Sherlock’s been touching, lightly, while John’s been looking, but now he tugs him down roughly for a kiss. John kisses back, opening the lube with one hand and squeezing some out, coating his fingers. He reaches between Sherlock’s legs, and slides one finger inside him just as his tongue strokes between Sherlock’s parted lips. Sherlock gasps into John’s mouth, and then arches his back as John finds his prostate and crooks his finger to rub against it. 

John works him as slowly as Sherlock had stroked him earlier, and by the time John’s worked a third finger in, Sherlock’s panting against his lips. 

“John,” he breathes, scraping short fingernails down John’s back. “ _Now_.” 

John pulls his fingers out and lubes up his cock, positioning himself at Sherlock’s entrance. He takes a moment to appreciate the sight before him before he pushes slowly in. 

Sherlock lifts his leg and hooks it over John’s shoulder, heel digging into the small of John’s back as he pulls him closer. 

John gives a strangled groan as he sinks fully into Sherlock, forcing his hips to still as he looks at him. “All right?”

Sherlock glares and digs his heel harder into John’s back. John takes the cue and begins thrusting, slow at first, but then harder, faster, because _fucksogood_. Sherlock’s making small, almost helpless sounds of pleasure every time John hits his prostate, and John’s reasonably sure he could come from those alone. 

John’s close, so close, and he reaches down to wrap a hand around Sherlock’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. 

“John,” Sherlock says, his voice a strangled choke, and he comes a few moments later, spilling over John’s hand and his stomach with a soft, wordless cry. 

It only takes another few thrusts before John’s coming as well, fingers clenching the sheets and biting the inside of his cheek as his orgasm hits him hard, almost whiting out his vision. He tries to pause and catch his breath when he comes back to himself, but the arm supporting him doesn’t want to work anymore, so he gives up and collapses, half on top of the bed and half on top of Sherlock.

After a few moments, he pulls out, tying off the condom and chucking it in the direction of the rubbish bin while Sherlock cleans himself off with his pants. John settles back down then, one leg over Sherlock’s, arm around his waist. Sherlock’s just staring at him, eyes still intense, but expression content.

“How come it took you so long to figure it out?” John asks sleepily. 

“As I said before, it’s not really my area,” Sherlock says.

“You said that about girls,” John points out.

Sherlock frowns. “Yes, well, I meant the whole thing. Oh, I’ve done it before, of course, but not very often. And I’ve never had desire to the point of distraction. I didn’t recognize it.” 

John feels a bit proud that _he_ was able to drive Sherlock Holmes to distraction. “How’d you figure it out, then?”

“You were staring at me,” Sherlock replies. “Just before I brought up your clothes. You looked –hopeful. At me. Like you were expecting me to do something. And nervous. And I saw desire. When I saw it in you, I recognized it in me. And I realized, you thought you might have figured it out, and you were hoping I would tell you that you did.” He pauses, then adds, “You did.” 

John lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and closes his eyes, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s. “I’m glad you took my clothes. Even if your so-called experiment was only to see what I’d do.”

Sherlock gives a huff of amusement, and John knows he was right. 

“Yes, well, ‘what you’d do’ turned out to be ‘give me an amazing shag,’ so I’m glad I took them as well.” Then he sighs. “I suppose you’ll want them back.”

“Eventually. No hurry,” John replies. “I’ve got tomorrow off too, you know.” He pauses to frown. “As long as we won’t be expecting any more drugs busts.”

Sherlock wraps an arm around his shoulders possessively. “They’ll be far too busy having to deal with Anderson’s idiocy to disturb us.” His fingertips begin tracing patterns on John’s right bicep. 

John decides he likes Sherlock’s arm around him, and snuggles closer. “Stay with me tonight?”

Sherlock pauses in his tracing. “If you agree to something first.”

John opens his eyes and finds Sherlock staring at him again, solemn and uncertain. “What?”

“Never go to rehab,” Sherlock says. 

John blinks, tries to process that, fails, and repeats, “What?”

“If I’m an addiction for you, you can never go to rehab,” Sherlock tells him.

John tries not to smile, because Sherlock is obviously serious. He considers trying to explain that it was only a metaphor, but gives up, because it likely wouldn’t do any good. And there’s actually likely a bit of truth in it, anyway. “There’s no rehab for you, Sherlock, no cure. And even if there was, I’d never take it.” 

Sherlock watches him for another long moment. “Then I’ll stay.”

“Good.” John pulls the blanket over them and closes his eyes. 

He falls asleep tangled up with Sherlock, listening to him breathe and thinking about tomorrow. He dreams of many things that night, but mysteriously absent are screaming gunfights and clothes, and John’s quite pleased at both.


End file.
